All There Is Always
by Dollfayce
Summary: We get to this point, and one of us cannot go any farther, no matter how the other might beg.
1. Play Out

ALL THERE IS ALWAYS

The Joker stood outside Wayne Manor.

Security had never been a problem for him exactly but he had swept up the hill this chill night with a single minded-ness taking even himself slightly aback. Made him laugh. What fun tonight would be, he knew, and made sure the last of that guard-dog blood was wiped clean from his high-heeled boots onto the dark lawn.

There was a light sprinkle this night. That, and sweat from his recent breaking and entering exertions, had made his makeup run. Bleed trickle-black down his face. He would not bother to fix it.

If anyone had looked close enough anymore they might tell he had once been a handsome man, the Joker, if to unconventional taste. Tall, lanky but broad-shouldered. Thin enough to betray the most suggestive curve of hip. Before the modifications he might have had a sweet face, with high sharp cheekbones, long blonde hair, those sad bright eyes that could break a heart. And that smile. Oh that smile. Someone's golden boy, someone's shining knight, no doubt.

But then, probably, something had happened. He was never sure how honest he was being when whenever story ran through his too-quick thoughts. Something that marks a distinct break. Some event or passion that doesn't fit in the established order.

Some sick slice of an instant. Some sharp shatter of a memory—single moment and nothing would ever be the same again. One minute one world, the next minute some gloriously wrong world and nothing is the same ever again!

And there's no going back, is there. Is there? What if it all becomes too boring? And that's really all there is?

He still was a heartbreaker, if in the more literal sense. Ha-ha-ha. Bang-gun-spear-flag. It really was too cute. Too funny. To be a perverted permutation of everything you once were.

Gotham was a toxic neon grin beneath him. Wayne came from old money—his house was just the right amount removed from the crush of the real city, real people. At least that's what people thought. Some of Joker's biggest kicks came from what people thought and what was really the case.

Bruce Wayne's secret would belong to himself alone though. It was too good a joke to ruin it by telling people who wouldn't get it. Joker wasn't stupid. Far from it. He had known who Batman playacted at for a long time. In a way he was much, much brighter than Batman. It was his downfall, he knew.

And they had gone about as far as they could go like this, together, Joker knew this too.

He grinned up at his target window, ceding to physical reality enough to blink the drizzle out of his eyes. The lights were off. Batman—in his Wayne guise—would be asleep. The only other denizen—the old 

man—would not realize they had been drugged til the next day. (Really, who doesn't test their own food supply, he had marveled.) Joker had considered killing the old man but decided against it. Batman did not deal with death in a remotely healthy manner and it might be several boring years alone in Gotham if Batman awoke to have his pet butler or whatever gone, and decided to take a Tibetan sabbatical or something like that. It wasn't worth contemplation.

The martyrdom of the living. And if Joker hated anything it was a Cause with a capital C. Hated is the wrong word. Found distressingly pedestrian, maybe. Boring.

The Joker had rested outside long enough, he decided, and turned his gaze back to the front of the house. The wet grass crunched and slipped beneath his feet as he strode to the door—positively titillating thrill of anticipation, he noted to his approval. He hoped Batman would live up to it.

Oh but that was disloyal! He always did.

Joker had brought the appropriate accoutrements to open a door as undoubtedly guarded as Wayne's. In fact, it only took him mere moments, deft white fingers flashing under whatever moonlight made it through the clouds. He was disappointed. It was only wired for the more determined of burglar. Perhaps he never expected attack here. Or nobody of the Joker's caliber. Which admittedly was unmatched. Joker reprimanded himself for forgetting that, and magnanimously forgave Batman.

He always did.

(Always is such a terrifyingly permanent word. Fixed in time.)

The inside was appropriately lush, yet so painfully tasteful it set the clown's teeth on edge. Fortunately it probably wouldn't be around much longer.

He had done his homework as far as floorplans go, and bounded and skipped (quietly) up the grand staircase to what he was fairly certain was Batman's (all right, Wayne's) usual sleeping quarters. He hoped Batman hadn't had a sleepover or something. There was no reason to kill Catwoman so callously, she deserved the hilarity of a joke all her own. No, Batsy needed to be alone, Joker told himself as he fumbled past the security system of the bedroom.

That last click, as the lock gave, as the alarm was disengaged, and Joker reflected on the phrase heart in your throat.

"Oh, ladies and gentlemen, blithering boys and pretty broken dolls of _girls_," he whispered to himself, "oh, it's _showtime_," he hissed, and pushed open the oversized wooden doors, and stepped with usual mien inside the room.

Big windows let in the stars and the dark. The bed, all black, white, and cherry, lay in the center of the room.

Batman, disguised as a sleeping Bruce Wayne, was lying in the bed.

The Joker, for all his aggressive competence in other aspects of life, had very little skill in containing his excitement. In this area, at least, although not exactly an innocent he was an absolute child. He let out something between a squeal, a coo, and a very off-putting giggle before he bounded over to Bruce. Kid with a Christmas present. Fortunately he had come prepared and did not spoil this so-perfect moment with over-effusiveness. As, well, let's be honest, he really was prone to do.

He reached into the recesses of pockets, and drew out some simple restraining gear. Arms and legs and the like. Hopefully Bat-proof, although Joker didn't really care either way. They were going to have fun tonight. After a little talk.

He bent over Wayne, examining him, drinking it all in. This was his Bat. All naked-faced and asleep and vulnerable. Joker's fevered breath made Wayne's perfect dark hair blow this way and that, and Joker's own imperfectly green locks fell forward to brush Batman's exposed cheekbone. Oh he was so prone so VULNERABLE--It was too much to bear at this juncture, Joker realized, and he took a breath to calm his thoughts, his heart rate. Instead he gently took Batman's wrist and bound it, then the other, then the ankles. Good and tight. He needed to have a talk with him first. Just some friendly words, two old friends shooting the breeze since shooting each other was probably not going to be on the table tonight.

He arranged himself to the side of Batman, still seated on the bed. He wanted his proximity to be intrusive but not overwhelming. And he removed a syringe from another pocket, already full of a clear liquid. Careful as any doctor, he administered the shot to his Bat-man.

"Wakey, wakey," he said, and then started singing softly, "Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day…"

Bruce Wayne's eyes fluttered open, to the last thing he ever wanted to wake up to. He jerked, realized he was restrained, jerked some more to get the feel of things, to make sure it wasn't a dream.

It wasn't.

Joker's hand jerked out at the struggle around Wayne's neck, pinning him down. "I'm not finished," he said petulantly. "Ahem. I've got a beautiful feeling..."

Batman drew in his breath, sharp, as the acid bright eyes stared down at him and that sickly voice continued,

"Everything's going my way!"

A/N This is Heath-Joker and Bat-Bale inspired so I'm putting it in the movie section. I love criticism on writing and mechanics, not character. If we don't agree on character flames are not going to change our minds.

Another word, from me the author. I'm sorry I've been so absent and I've neglected to thank properly everyone who actually sits down and reads my stuff and takes time to comment on it. You've been the 

bright spot in what turned out to be the darkest summer I could imagine. I know this sounds maudlin but seriously, thank you.

Boo. Let's hope for a better winter. I know I'll be warming myself by the fire of Batman love.


	2. The Potential Death of a Playboy

THE ENEMY

OR WE'VE REALLY GIVEN AWAY EVERYTHING WE HAD TO GIVE, HAVEN'T WE?

So.

_The only thing you taught me is the only thing you know—how to start a fire when the embers cease to glow. _

Joker laughed, high-pitched hysterical. Here lie his mentor, here lie his nemesis, here lie oh all that he ever loved, as that dead French guy said about that other monstrosity.

The Bat in the bed, on top of fine white sheets, restrained to the bedposts, looking for all the world like a man about to have an (albeit specialized) super-fine time. The clown above, to the side, not yet daring to touch, though he was obviously fighting the urge. His left hand, the one he was not leaning on, twitched and fidgeted and came so close. But it was too soon. Give in now and Joker knew, he would break him. Too soon, too soon, too soon.

It was all too exciting.

Bruce, despite the aftereffects of the sedative and despite the shock, had already done some speedy calculations. Really just needed the answer to one rather obvious yet pressing question—what on earth was the Joker doing in Bruce Wayne's bedroom? It was a question resting heavily on his mind, in fact, and so too much credit shouldn't be given since it was rather difficult to consider anything else. And yet. Was the Joker here for Bruce? Unlikely. What he could get from Bruce Wayne was money or publicity or both. Wayne was too theatrical a public figure to waste time on such an intimate showdown such as the one now playing out.

Bruce Wayne did not notice, as he never noticed, that he thought of himself in the third person. A What Would Wayne Do sort of thing. The Joker would have found this hilarious, and actually probably had some inkling of this fact.

What was more likely, was that Joker had somehow uncovered his true identity and decided to confront him when he was at a decided disadvantage. Therefore playing scared and confused, as Wayne would if awaking to such an unpleasant scenario, would be wasting both of their time.

All this before the clown had stopped giggling.

"Joker," he said, as soon as the giggles had died down. "Why are you here?"

"Why am I here? _Why am I here?" _He snorted. "Aren't you even going to _pretend_ to be all scared and surprised? No no no, forget I said that, don't," he said, his face going serious as it got, "that's unworthy of you." He was silent for about three seconds before laughter came bubbling out again, despite Joker's efforts to contain it. "Oh why am I here, that's a good one!" he gasped.

He was obviously overexcited, Wayne thought dispassionately, when he found everything that happened to be such a source of undiluted JOY that there was no doing anything with him until something didn't go his way. It was. Well. Kind of annoying.

"Joker," he almost commanded, "it's a legitimate question." He used the more forceful tone he did as Batman, although even he could admit it looked a little ludicrous coming from a half-naked man handcuffed to a bed. It was not exactly a position of power.

But. The tone of voice, the Batman growl, worked. Joker snapped out of it. "Fair enough, Mr. Wayne." He gave a sound best described as a 'snerk.' Brushed back the hair that had spilled forward. "It is legitimate. Okay. Okay, I'll play."

Joker cleared his throat, drew himself up. "Bruce Wayne," he said. "I've come to kill you!"

Wayne blinked. He had tried the restraints. The only way, as usual, was to try to talk his way out of it. "Why?" he asked. "I thought you said you never could kill me."

Joker made a minor event of looking confused. "No, no, I, no, I said I'd never kill Batman—_oh I see what you're getting at!" _he exclaimed, and gave him the 'you're incorrigible' look. "Oh, _you," _he said, pushing him playfully on the shoulder. Did it again, a little too hard, like he couldn't help himself. "Stop it! You heard what I said."

"I did," Bruce said. And he couldn't help himself. The Joker wanted him to ask, and really what else was there to do? "How long have you known?"

"Well," the Joker said, and sort of shifted his weight around to make himself more comfortable, which meant his long leg was now against Wayne—both men tensed involuntarily at the touch. Joker continued as if nothing about the situation was the least…awkward. "See, Bats, I've known for a long time. _I'm not stupid_," he smiled, tapping his smeared-white brow. "It's like, well, see, it's like—okay. You've been like the teenage daughter who rolls in every night at curfew with smeared lipstick and smelling like cigarettes. I mean, everyone knows what's going on! It's no secret! You think you're hiding it so well! But it's like, _embarrassing_, and you're not explicitly breaking any rules, but, see, there comes a time, when enough's, well. Enough."

His voice got low, and intense, as it did when it was time to stop laughing and start screaming. "_And enough's enough, Bruce Wayne."_

But as was his wont, his face brightened immediately. "I mean, Batman." He held up his hand, so just Wayne's jaw was visible. The old familiar maybe-you're-the-caped-crusader gesture girls used to tease their boyfriends. "There you are, Batman!" Then, a pause, the gloved fingers trembling as they sank to brush the bound man's face, in anything but a caress. "Batman…"

Joker's expression was inscrutable. Bruce felt unexpected panic, and broke the silence. Just keep him talking, the best rule with handling the Joker. "But you said…"

The Joker withdrew his hand. "Well exactly. I'm not lying. I never lie. Not really. I've come to kill Bruce Wayne. Not Batman."

"I'm not really seeing the distinction."

A peal of giggling. "Don't you though?" he cried, "don't you?" and Bruce was shocked to see there was a hint of desperation in the other man's voice, even his painted parody of a grimace.

"No."

Joker sighed. "Batman. Bruce. Whatever. I've come to do you a favor. I've come to give you the way out you've never had. Always," and he gave another frustrated sigh, as if uncertain how to articulate his thought, "so you've always had to be both, and live these two lives, and you pretend it's one life, but it's not!"

He paused, but went on almost immediately. "You know it's not. You're Batman. You're our bat-man, our dark knight in bat-shaped armor, while I'm stuck being the dark nighttime all by myself. It's boring! And I know you don't like it, oh I know it, I know it, I've _watched _you."

"You don't know anything," Wayne said, but he had forgotten about struggling. He had forgotten about breaking free, on some level had decided to hear the clown out.

"So but here's my plan," Joker continued, undeterred. "And feel appropriately honored, because I don't usually think this far in advance, much less about other people. But you're special. You're like me."

Bruce snapped out of it. "Joker," he said. "We've been through this. We're not—"

"_Aren't we_?" Joker cried, and Bruce was suddenly reminded how really when you think about it the line between despair and hilarity is almost negligible. "I know you. And I think I know myself. I mean, I spend enough time with myself and everything. So here's what happened. We're two men, products of our society, in this postmodern mash of a society—we both broke. And became something more!" He wagged a finger at Bruce. "And don't tell me we haven't! We just—dealt with things differently. Here you are, obsessed with the past and playing dress-up to make some sense of it. And here I am, obsessed as ever with only the present, only the Baudrillard fraction of reality now!"

He frowned. "Only I don't play dressup," he cautioned, and at Bruce's raised eyebrow, started laughing. "I just look really really good like this!"

Bruce tried to stretch. "And so?"

"So and we have called their petty pathetic little bluff, haven't we?" Joker was almost manic, shifting to kneel on the bed. "All those things you're not supposed to do, all those fantastic fascinating unconscionable acts, we've done them all! And just for ourselves!"

Joker was almost gasping, he must have realized, because he took a couple of deep breaths before continuing. "And it's all still…so boring, isn't it? All those fabulous things are still so boring."

Batman actually laughed, which would have been a major coup for Joker had he not been too agitated to notice. "What we do is hardly boring."

Joker grinned ruefully. "Boring's the wrong word. What's the right one? Oh yeah. Ennui." He giggled again. "C'est l'ennui. Who would have thought?"

"Baudelaire. This thought is not original."

It earned him a slap. Not hard. The sort an affronted woman might give. "I never said it was, did I? Doesn't make it any better now, does it."

"So because you're bored," Wayne drawled, "you sneak into my room and offer to kill me."

"Oh come on. Does that really sound out of character for me? But Bruce, oh Batman, don't lie to _me_, to your _biggest fan_." Joker leaned in close. "Don't tell me that despair, that boredom, that ennui doesn't come sweeping over you like some black wave every now and again?" His voice lowered to a poisonous whisper, almost from inside the other man's head. "Don't tell me you just get tired, of doing the same thing over, and over, and over again, and it all seems so pointless, and what's the point? And don't tell me that this isn't happening more and more and more often, til it chokes, til you're gasping, and nothing nothing _nothing_ will help this nothing?"

The other man could not deny to himself this truth. But hell if he'd let the clown know.

"Sure does sound like you're in a lot of pain," Batman shot back. "Don't project your loneliness onto me."

Joker's eyes flashed, and Bruce heard that little snik of a knife popping out, but Joker just drew back.

"I'm not," he finally smiled. "I'm not. So here's what I'm willing to do for you. We'll stage Bruce Wayne's death," and here he brought out the knife he was holding, made it dance around so the light caught it. "And we'll even use real blood so like no one will think it's a fake. I'll leave a note, saying don't even bother to look for the body. You can like write a goodbye note to your little…uh…" he gyrated the knife in a way that meant offstage, "pet butler, or whatever the guy is. Or like a cool not explaining you're not dead, only Bruce is. I don't really care. That's really between you two, none of my business. And then you can just be Batman! Use your little Batcave. Your Batcar. Your bat-everything."

Bruce paused. "A full time job as Batman, you mean."

"Exactly! And oh, Batsy, it's so much more fun. Take it from me. I think if we're both working on this problem together, full time, full speed ahead, two smart guys like us could really make some headway."

The painted man leaned forward again, his eyes bright. "So what do you say?"

"What will you do if I say no?"

The knife was at his cheek almost immediately. "Wasn't really planning on it, actually, but I'm inventive. Creative. I'll think of something."

It would be a lie if Bruce told himself he had not often considered this very option. Batman was what Bruce Wayne had become, certainly, but that darkness had always been there in the first place. And he would not be giving up Bruce Wayne—who he was, who he had loved, who had loved him. Only those tedious playboy trappings. He was always on duty, so to speak, anyway. And as much as he loathed the Joker…it would be a lie to say they didn't operate off that same baseline darkness, even though they interpreted it differently.

Bruce Wayne/Batman would…well.

"Why am I tied up, then, if you just wanted to make a proposition?" The knife blade was cold against his cheek, as knives in real life rarely are.

Joker pouted. "I was pretty sure you wouldn't listen to me otherwise. I have that problem, sometimes," he added in a confidential sort of tone.

"Untie me, and we'll talk."

"Wait, really?" Joker started giggling again. "You really expect me to do that."

"Yes. Joker. _Yes_."

Something, some odd alchemy of both men's emotions, expressions, tensions, whatever, something seemed to be perfect at that moment.

Without speaking, with gazes locked, and with that certain graceful deliberation Joker had when he wasn't putting on any sort of show, Joker moved the knife to the first leg's restraint, and _cut. _Then the next. Bruce made no move. Still in silence, Joker undid the left hand, then leaned over his not-so-helpless-anymore Bat to the right. He put his hand on Bruce's shoulder to steady himself, an oddly dominating yet at the same time vulnerable gesture.

Set the tone for things to come.

Joker leaned back, waited for Bruce to sit up.

"Well?" he asked. He was tense, waiting for the inevitable fight.

"Well," Bruce said. "Let's talk. About the death of Bruce Wayne."

"Oh _now we're talking_," Joker said, and smiled.

A/N This is an old idea I know but I wanted Joker to be involved. It's cute. And have some faith in Bruce, Joker's bright as anything but it hinders him as much as helps him. My little solipsistic darling.

Thanks to Devendra Banhart who has unknowingly lent his lyrics to the first line. This fic was also written under the influence of his music. I am slightly ashamed of my love for him. And. Also. Go check out wizzard890's lovely Joker fic on livejournal, it is from there I first saw Batman and Baudelaire in the same place and what a splendid idea it is!

And there's totally like two ways this could go right now and one of it includes the slash, so if I don't update real soon (Joker is so fun!) it's because I'm deciding.

Love always,

Dollfayce


	3. We Really Should Play This More Often

I AM NOT LOST YET

OR

WE REALLY SHOULD PLAY THIS MORE OFTEN

The Joker and the Batman sat opposite one another on Bruce Wayne's bed. Joker smiled, Batman frowned. As always, as ever.

"Well," Bruce said. "Let's talk. About the death of Bruce Wayne."

"Oh now we're talking," Joker said, and smiled.

Wayne, to be honest, had very little idea of where the night was to go from here. He saw Joker like this but rarely—pensive and manic at once, wanting to connect in his own strange way. The time he had kidnapped Gordon, for example. That time with the boats and the detonators--and Harvey. That time with. Well. There were tricks, and there were tricks. Anyway, what did that one writer say, about any public act, any piece of art, any novel or performance piece, just a cry for attention, for recognition? For--ha. For some sort of love. That said, Joker in these moods, without a set pet theory to demonstrate or revel in, was at his most unpredictable.

It would not be dishonest to say the Joker also had very little idea of where the night was to go from here, as well. He was grinning, eyes locked on Wayne's, but there were these little telltale signs. The tongue prodding the red lipstick, experimentally. Bouncing the base of the knife in the opposite hand. Fidgety frantic movements of a man unsure how to contain his very urgent energy.

Wayne could capitalize upon that. Talk was the easiest way. Get him to repeat his plan, _that_ old standby. Get him talking about anything impassioning. "Tell me why, exactly, I should fake my death and join you, as my own man, so to speak."

Joker burst out giggling before he settled down to give a good derisive snort. "Oh Bruce. Oh Batman. Oh, honey, no…" he positively whined, in his overly made-up face a parody of a woman. "You know why. I told you. Don't change the subject."

He held up a finger to inform Bruce he needed just a sec, while he adjusted himself on the bed so he was almost kneeling--which was in fact a gross oversight. If theings were to get dicey and action was called for, one was far less mobile having legs folded under. Joker seemed more concerned about seeming companionable, though, than seeming vulnerable. "Okay, better, we can really talk now," he said, giving Bruce's nose a little poke, as if he was a small nephew. Or a particularly cute bunny. Whatever.

Out of either instinct or annoyance, Batman's arm shot up to grab the offending hand. Joker smirked. Wayne blinked, slowly and with gravity, he imagined, before releasing the clown's hand.

"Right, so," Joker continued, unfazed. "Where," he held up the knife, twisting it with relish, "are we gonna cut to fake this death. I have to admit," he said, giggling just a bit, eyeing the knife then Bruce then back, "this is going to be probably like my favorite part. I mean, so, I know, so, I've waxed rhapsodic on this kinda crap before--but so seriously there's something I find very poetic about a good cut. Cathectic catharsis, maybe, and of course all those--"

It was Bruce's turn to raise a finger, this one in warning. "If I indeed agree with you, Joker. If I decide to go along with you. And if you recall, this has not been decided."

"If!" the other man cried. "Oh wow, if, if, if. If the sky were a stone, made of lip, made of bone!" He cocked his head, made a move to touch Wayne but thought better of it almost immediately and retracted his hand. "I'm not really wanting you to have a choice, here, Wayne. Batman."

"Then where's the fun?" Wayne knew his opponent.

The clown gave a fake smile-sneer any catty high school girl would have died for. "Clever," he simpered. "Don't even try to tell me what my game is here, Batman, you have trouble keeping up sometimes anyway."

He snorted. "There's really nothing you can say here. I'm not going to suddenly be like, like those really _kicky_ robots from old 60's sci-fi shows, and you'll say something, and I'll suddenly be all, oh! Oh! This does not compute!" He waved his arms wildly, with the knife, to illustrate his point. "And then like explode, or short circuit, or something. Nuh-uh. Not gonna happen. So. Where?"

Now Bruce smiled. "I said we would discuss this, Joker. As you asked. As the adult men we both are." It was much, much harder to stay deadpan sometimes than anybody would have any inkling of, much less give him credit for. He himself adjusted on the bed, so he himself would not be so prone. He calculated correctly the Joker was probably not gauging his movements past relative proximity.

Joker sighed, and slouched. "Oh all right. Though honestly I can't see why you're so attached to this…this mausoleum. I mean, I get flak for being macabre, but this!" he gestured to the large portrait of Bruce's parents in the room. Bruce tensed. His family was not discussion material for the likes of the Joker. "Wow. Although," he continued, and bounced as thoughtfully as one can on the bed, "I guess it's pretty swanky, isn't it? All the trappings of Gotham royalty." He smacked his lips. "_Nice_."

"I'm fond of it, myself."

Joker had this way of talking, letting the words roll all around over-enunciated in his mouth, like he was savoring the sheer visceral delight of teeth and tongue, lip and breath. The delight of a corrupted physical existence.

Bruce as Batman had a way of talking, calculated and cold. Everything chosen for the maximum effect on the other person. The pleasures of disembodiment.

The sheer inefficacy of these two communication styles against each other was not lost on either man.

"So, make your case," Batman said. "With the full understanding that there is no guarantee I will agree with you."

"Sigh. You never do."

"Don't pout," Batman said, with a brief smile, and received one in return. Batman enjoyed perpetuating a false sense of camaraderie, on the occasion. It was useful. Still. "Perhaps," Bruce said. "We could take this downstairs? The bed is hardly an appropriate place to--"

"But I like it here," the other man purred, "it's all comfy." Knife pressed to lips like a hushing finger, so Batman could keep an eye on it, Joker leaned forward, into the other man. A short outburst of laughter. "It's more…intimate!"

Bruce recoiled. This feigning of attraction always unsettled him, despite his best efforts to not let the Joker see him react. That said, the exasperated part of him always wanted to call Joker's bluff--to see how far the clown would take it before getting bored. The same part of him realized Joker _never_ did _anything_ by halves and therefore this was not the most palatable option, even if it would do away with a lot of nonsense.

Joker, who had put out his left hand to steady himself over a reclining Bruce, did not let the humor of their suddenly compromising position escape him. Power play, like always. "Well, this is much more interesting than what I had in mind!" he said, and went that much too far--putting out his right hand to touch Wayne's cheek--soft, as if the touch would shock.

It was probably both the immediacy of the other man and the novelty of the gesture that kept Wayne still for just that too long of an instant. Fever-bright gaze against cool and sharp and dark. The way his smear red mouth, his painted-on farce of sexuality, twisted into a sneer when the touch was soft, and darkened and darkened into an angry grin of a grimace as the slender hand tangled in Wayne's hair, tried to pull his head further back and towards the other man. An incapability of healthy expression Wayne knew all too well.

Wayne let his head be pulled back, but only to a point, so Joker would snap out of his reverie and realize he would only get as far as Wayne himself let him. If he didn't know this already.

It worked. "Heh," Joker said, disentangling his fingers and giving Wayne a brief pat on the head as he leaned back. "Sorry. Those perfect super-hero features--all chiseled and tabloid-worthy. All that wasted strength and stupid ideas. I mean, I sure want to do something, but I'm not sure what, you know?" He giggled, and Wayne felt a brief chill at how really personal this thing was.

"Probably destroy them," Joker continued, "get that really stupid predictable thrill of destroying something beautiful and irreplaceable. Although, come to think of it, that's always good for a laugh. But, so, then I'd be bored." He shrugged. "I'm bored now. See my problem, then."

Wayne was breathing more raggedly than we would have liked. Joker had a definite presence, it could not be denied. He risked standing up--did it slowly, so it wouldn't look like an attack. He smoothed his pants, undid the remainder of the wrist restraints. "Not my problem. I don't think you realize this. At all. But I said I'd consider your proposal, and I am."

Joker was still sitting on the bed. He nodded, looking up at the other man expectantly. "Well?"

"And the answer is no. You think I haven't considered the option myself? How condescending of you, you who always go on about us being equals, how patronizing of you to sweep in and offer this to me as if I was too stupid to think of it myself. This is really not worthy of you," Batman said. He was uncertain as to why he was purposely antagonizing his nemesis, as threats against his intelligence always had that special way of doing. Possibly, he would have to admit, because Joker had just pressed his buttons so well. There was a certain petty vengeance and of course escalation at play here. He even smiled to drive the point home. As much as Joker claimed the contrary, he really hated Batman laughing at him.

But the clown only smiled back. "Okay, okay, okay," he said. "Fair enough, I deserve that. But really," he said, "really only tell me this because that's what you honestly want, not because you're getting all hoity-toity that it's gonna seem like my idea now and that's embarrassing."

"Really," Wayne said, deadpan. "Really, really."

Joker was silent--and still, if not exactly calm. Wayne continued. "Batman, as you must have realized, is a part of me, he is not me. If I give up Bruce Wayne, Batman has no cause to exist. I cannot erase my past, but I cannot let it consume--"

Joker fell back, laughing. "Seriously? No, seriously? I'm asking for real, seriously? You can say that with a straight face?"

"I can."

"Then--oh good heavens, you've fooled yourself." He sat back up, quiet. "That's--that's quite funny, actually. What we do to survive one more day in this crazy-cruel world." He cleared his throat. "So actually I could look at this as sad, really sad, but you know that's not my style."

"What do you mean?"

"I--just. I was hoping…well. You've disappointed me, honestly. I think." And Joker really did look disappointed. Wistful, even. A face ceding at least the existence of the possibility of tears. As much as one could discern a face behind the face-paint.

"Joker, I must admit I am curious. Were you…what were you expecting?"

"Oh let me out…" Joker said softly, and not to Wayne. His eyes were a bit too unfocussed for Wayne's liking. "Oh let me be gone!"

"What?" Wayne found himself asking, stupidly, and thus was caught off-guard when the Joker rallied round back to his old self and leapt at Wayne, laughing. It was an easy maneuver to turn Joker's momentum back on himself and flip the far more slender man back onto the bed like an overly rambunctious child. He was about to chide the Joker for such an obviously pointless and emotional move when he remembered the knife. He remembered it because suddenly his torso was very wet.

The pain kicked in soon after. Wayne couldn't help the reflex of grasping at the wound, pulling away to see blood. Looking at the Joker, who had rebounded nicely and had arranged himself sleepover style--cross-legged, a pillow clutched to his lap.

"Ouch," the Joker cringed appreciatively, running a hand through his lank, still-damp locks. "That looks like it hurts." He laughed. "Hey, watch this!"

He held the knife up, and had Wayne been watching closely his stomach would have turned at the languorous way the clown licked the blood off the knife.

Wayne paid little attention to him, instead gauging how deep the wound was. It was not immediately life-threatening. But he did feel dizzy--some sort of poison? But the Joker had--so something the Joker would be immune to? Some diluted Joker toxin. He had the antidote, if he could reach it.

"It's not gonna kill ya," the Joker said flatly, bored. "It is gonna make you sit down and take a listen."

He was right. Wayne had no choice, if he was to retain consciousness and the contents of his stomach, but to collapse on the bed. If he didn't move, everything seemed to be okay. Except for the skinny clown scooting up next to him and resting a hand sociably on his chest, as he sat.

"Oh Bruce. You care so much. About the past, I mean. You gotta know you gotta lose everything to find it, it's like in the Bible or something, I dunno. And all we have here. All you have, all I have, all we have together, what? All that tawdry heartbreak, all those petty little chaos-happenings and sharp cutting happenstances, oh so oh why is there still room to care? Action, reaction, is this really all there is? Always?"

Bruce muttered something. The clown merely smiled down at him, a joke of a beatific smile, and gently brushed the hair out of the prone man's eyes.

"Not that I'm not concerned about you. I am. I mean, I didn't just come here for myself." At this, Joker paused and frowned. "I don't think. I could be wrong. But anyways. Like I've said before, you--haha--you complete me. Your Appollonian obsession with line and form, my chthonian chaotic. My bright smile, your dark glare."

Joker paused again, his hand stopping if not exactly resting on Bruce's chest, thankfully away from the wounds. "Still--I. Hm. How to put this politely. I don't—I don't think I love you. If you died I would be upset, but only because I lost my favorite toy. I don't think that's what you all are ever talking about. I don't think you love me. I used to but now I don't. I don't think we feel. Not really. Not like other people do. I think we worshipped at whatever altar too long and like whatever thing you choose to worship it eats you right up. Like sex, cocaine, rock and roll, religion, collecting McDonald's Happy Meal toys, it's all the same when you get right down to it."

He looked almost sad. "And we're gone, don't you think?"

At this Bruce turned himself over, looked in his enemy's eyes. "_You're_ gone.," he emphasized. "You have destroyed yourself. You can't blame anything on anything else." Although he only felt fine if he remained still, he labored to raise himself up. Joker, with a sort of grim half-smile, pushed him back down easily, with the same hand he had been using to caress him.

"Oh! _Look_ at you _go_," he murmured appreciatively. "Always trying so hard. Always even just trying. But like I've told you before, you have nothing you can threaten me with. You'll just have to come along with me."

Bruce Wayne--Batman--laughed. He had finally figured something out. "Joker," he breathed, "I used to think I could save you, that your brilliant mind was just in--in a very elaborate prison, I suppose. But I've since realized. Not just now either. Wherever you've gone, you are"--he gasped--"you are _not_ coming back. And you say I have nothing to threaten you with. But. I could, I could say I'm not coming with you."

Joker was studiously--one might say pointedly--examining his knife. "Oh dear. Aren't you?"

"No."

"You're no fun anymore."

"I am _not lost yet_."

It was a measure of the depth of their relationship that although they were speaking in seeming non sequitur, they were answering everything the other wanted to know.

Joker gave another grim little bark of a laugh. "Here's the joke, though, Bruce. Batman. You will be lost. You will lose yourself as I have. I will be the one you lose yourself for. And then you won't need me anymore anyway."

Batman wanted anything but to admit the clown was right. But the poison was working too well and fast not be lethal soon--he could rage about the other fact later. "Joker," he said, struggling again. "If I don't do something about this wound, it will be a moot point."

"Oh, don't worry, Batsy," the Joker said, pushing him right back down again. "I've got you all taken care of."

The smile was _so_ wide. "Just you wait." And Joker's hand pulled away from Bruce and reached into his jacket pocket.

A/N Longer than usual, and I really thought they were going to make it out of bed. Oh well. I hope you enjoyed this installment, as I hope you are enjoying the story.

Let me know what you think, please! I hope the slash content was appropriate. And for those of you who might enjoy Harley, my take on her is next--not in this story, thank goodness, but another. Writing Joker is really much too much fun.

Love, as always, Dollfayce


	4. Oh Playmate

OH PLAYMATE

Oh playmate.

Come out and play with me

And bring your dollies three

Climb up my apple tree

Slide down my rainbow

Into my cellar door

And we'll be jolly friends

Forevermore

It was, unfortunately and again, a syringe that Joker pulled out of his pocket. Second one of the night. This one filled with a disconcertingly cloudy liquid.

After all: nothing like a syringe of indeterminate contents to liven up an evening!

"How many of those do you have?" asked Wayne. Things were getting a bit blurry--the knife's poison had really been something.

"Are you being funny?" Joker asked, absently, holding the syringe up to the light, making sure it was all prepped. "That's adorable. Actually I have more than you think." He leaned over Bruce again, and Wayne could once again feel his breath on his skin. "It's a real bitch if I sit down wrong, believe you me," he smiled.

He jabbed the needle in. Bruce did not even wince. Just glared his perfect blue glare.

Joker was still smiling, serene. "You're not even going to ask what it is? Fair enough. I just love surprises too. But in case you're interested, this'll pretty much keep you loopy, but stop you from paralysis and death, which is the side effect of my little knife-ty-bo there." He threw up his hands. "Which normally I'm just all into paralysis and death, but I'm feeling here it would kind of be overkill."

He slapped Bruce on the chest, a little too hard, a little too close to the wound. "What do you _think_, Bats?"

Bruce couldn't help but grunt in sheer pain, the kind that's all sorts of colors before your eyes. After that subsided he discovered Joker was right, that most of the sheer discomfort of the poison was gone. He merely felt dizzy and disoriented. And while he was still bleeding, it was not serious. The flow was already stopping. It would merely require stitches.

"My answer stands, Joker," he growled, and tried to sit up.

Joker actually helped him, with an annoying "Attaboy!" so they were sitting side by side. The clown put his hand again on the other man's chest and grimaced. "Ooh, that looks bad." He sprang up, obviously none of his energy dissipated from his earlier outbursts. He sprang up, made a show of kneeling and looking under the bed, popped back up to attention, looking at Bruce.

"Where do you keep like needle and thread, or like, a first aid kit, or, I dunno, whatever?" he flailed an arm to indicate, presumably, other bandage related materials. "Cause I gotta tell you, I sure don't travel with any myself."

Bruce nodded in direction of he dresser. "Third drawer on the right, from the top," he said. Joker immediately obliged. "Joker, did you hear me?" he asked. "I'm not going with you. I'm not faking my death. I'm not," he continued, wondering just how plainly he could put it, "doing anything close to whatever you _even remotely_ want me to do."

"Oh, I know. I heard you, Batman. I'm not deaf." He had found the box and after a few curious shakes, like he was testing out a gift, came sailing back. "And no, before you ask, I'm not stupid, either." He hopped onto the bed, a kid at a sleepover, and opened the box. Carefully, he started laying out the contents on the now ruined sheets.

Had Bruce been a little less drugged and a little less surprised, he might have conjured up an appropriate reaction.

"Well?" was all he could manage. "Why are you still here?" he decided to add. Batman was never too drugged to be a bit of an ass.

"Oh Batman. Heh. Heh-heh. Oh Bruce," he amended, and it was the first time he had ever called him be his real name, and no matter how much of a sneer or snarl was put into the utterance, it still and would always gave Wayne the chills. "Oh Bruce, I never really expected you to say yes."

"What?"

"Don't be so shocked," the other man said, his lazier drawl, while he fumbled with a needle and thread--Bruce's personal emergency stitch kit. Wayne frowned, knowing the Joker was getting Ideas again. "Like I remind you, oh, pretty much every freaking time I see you. I know you. I know what to expect from you."

He turned his face to Bruce's, finally. "I did not expect you to say yes. We both know I didn't even really want you to say yes. I would have been all disappointed and probably, probably just walked home defeated, if you had. Watched Colin Firth movies and ate ice cream straight out of the container, whatever you're supposed to do if you're all distraught. But no," he said, "you're keeping our narrative on track here. I mean, who cares if Bruce's parents are dead if there's no little Brucie to mourn them?"

Joker sounded distant, if it were any other man he might have been called sad.

"What about you?" Bruce asked. Maybe this was the breakthrough he had been waiting for in the Joker's case--maybe they could finally talk? If only his head wasn't--if only he didn't feel so odd...

"Hmm?" Joker said. "What did you say? Oh! Me? What about me?" he said. "Don't get all boring, Batsy! This isn't about me. This is about..."

Joker, with his usual deft and lightning-quick ferocity, grabbed Wayne's arm and twisted, slammed him down on the bed. Bruce grabbed for him, but was a fraction too late. "Us!" he finished. "I'm gonna fix this, don't you worry," he said, holding up the needle.

Bruce sneered, but remained still, daring him to make a move.

"This is happening, actually," Joker said.

"You think I'm going to let you touch me with that, I see."

"What, so I stab you and poison you, and, and this is even after I've broken into your house and woken you up, if nothing else, and you're gonna get all persnickety about this? Maybe I don't get you."

A pause "You just could have asked me to lean back," Bruce said, groaning. Relaxing enough so Joker might let his guard down a little more. "I might have found that less confrontational."

Joker looked at him blankly, as if the idea had honestly never occurred to him. "Oh. I guess--yeah. Point taken. Anyways," and he shrugged and leaned over, trying to start his work.

"You," he finally smiled, "must be joking," he said, catching Joker's bony wrist in his own grip.

It was the wrong move, Bruce realized. Joker's eyes, which in the last few minutes had been distracted, sad, slightly unfocused, positively crystallized with all that fire and rage and laughter Bruce knew all too well. And the clown smiled again.

Oh how he smiled.

It was indicative of Joker's feverish insanity that his obsessive tendencies seemed to indicate marked gaps in perception, most evident in his complete disdain for the mundane. So while his persona was perfect, his smile harsh and aggressive, his costumes immaculate, his plans perfect--see how the green dye was dripping from his lank hair, see how the red was almost gone from that killer smile, of yellow teeth. He really did think nothing of himself as a person, rather a persona. Mark his complete disregard of personal pain.

The scars puckered, and the eyes flashed, and the clown stood up away from Bruce and pulled a gun.

(Exhibit B, Joker might cry, compare/contrast Bruce's obsession with detail and perfection, never letting any mask slip or crack. See how his eyes never even widen at the drawn weapon.)

Bang went the black gun, through the air, out the window. Bang bang bang. Joker grinning all the while, the gun kicking his long hand back, back, back with each fire.

Finally the glass shattered completely, an oddly musical crunch and crash. Little shards on the immaculate floor, glitter like stars.

"Like I said," Joker said.

Wayne considered his options, and decided to acquiesce. He could stop Joker if he tried anything.

Really, he could. Seriously.

He sat back, semi-recumbent. "What are you waiting for."

The cold night came in from what was left of the window. Joker kneeled, slowly, next to Bruce. His smile was gone. Instead his gaze was dark again, his lip slightly curled. He took a moment to actually start, to actually place his hands on his Bat without express intent to cause further damage. He finally rested one a little too harsh too hard on Wayne's chest. Both men's eyes were on his hand. Their thoughts, no doubt, were on the intriguing new power dynamic asserting itself before their eyes.

Bruce, at least, could not remember being so alarmingly conscious of one touch in recent memory.

Joker, who seemed to be pretty familiar with all this, held the wound together, pressed on the necessary bandaging to hold it. Took the needle, pushed it cold into the other man's skin.

Bruce blinked. A gasp for anyone else.

Joker had, in his lengthy hospitalizations, never had actually been diagnosed with any explicitly psychosexual disorders. He had always archly declared himself above and beyond anything so crass and petty and common. Seemingly paradoxically, though, he had always happily declared that on a level both visceral and intellectual he was fascinated by pain. Batman, although he didn't need any more confirmation, could see it in the way his eye flashed with every stitch. The quickness of breath modulated by each thrust and pull of the needle.

"And don't worry," Joker suddenly started up again, too loud for how close they were. "I'll do a much better job than I did on my face."

"So you did stitch up your own face?"

Joker paused, looked up for a moment at Bruce, then laughed. "Ha. Oh ha-ha Bruce, very clever aren't you. No, I didn't. That is to say, maybe. That is to say, does it even matter?"

He laughed more quietly. "No, Bruce, these scars don't matter. Only that they're there. That I cut myself up and apart and made my own image unto myself. And you did too. Besides, I think--I mean, so pretty much at this point we both know how we got all of these scars."

"Because we gave them to each other, you mean."

"Jeez, I wasn't gonna come out and say that, take all the subtlety away. Now I sound like a ham."

Joker was reprising his old role. Bruce was tired of talking to him about scars. Always the discussion went down the same roads. Always.

Always: I want you to burn, I want you to bleed. All the wrong things made not right again. All the wrong things made bright again. Salamander cicatrice. We are cut apart and make our own image unto ourselves. Or what we once were. What we might have remembered we once were. Puzzle people. How many ways can you put yourself back together? And how many times? And what lines does it leave?

You want to know how I got these scars.

No need to ask, I already know.

Boring, really.

"That should do it," he said. "That should hold you for now for sure." He patted the stitches, gave his fingers a sloppy kiss, and planted it on Wayne's shoulder. "All better!"

He looked down again, repeating it to himself. "All better. All better, all better, all better."

Joker's face went blank, as it was wont to do sometimes when waiting for the next big thing. He slid off the bed and towards the open window. Just standing. Just waiting. The gun lay on the floor by the bed. Bruce lay on the bed, by all the medical supplies.

Bruce groaned, to himself. This was either just ending or just beginning. Because Joker had left the first aid kit on his bed with him, and in the second compartment were most antidotes.

While Joker was off staring at grinning Gotham, Bruce administered the correct antidote to himself. He glanced down at the stitching. Joker had indeed done an impeccable job.

Almost immediately Bruce felt better. It had not been a strong chemical, merely a persistent one. He stretched, unfolding his always impressive physique off the rumpled sheets.

Batman joins the Joker at the window. It is of course still cold. It is of course still drizzling. It hits Bruce's face, and it's been washing the last of the white off the Joker.

There is no more makeup. There are no more masks. When they look at one another, all they see are strangers.

Bruce speaks first. "Why are you here." It is not so much a question, but a demand.

"I told you," the Joker says. He is petulant, now. "Ha. Think of it as an invitation. Like throwing rocks at a window. Come out and play, I'm bored."

"You've never come into my house. Not looking for Batman, at least." Wayne's words, and especially his tone, aren't granting Joker any leeway. Like always.

Joker wasn't meeting his gaze. He still looks out, at their city. Out into the night, at something they cannot see. "No," he says. "But I had to, you know, eventually."

"Why, Joker. Why?"

Joker whips his head around, his now-wet, now-blond hair whipping around too, and sticking in tendrils to his ruined face.

"Because--ha-ha, because, like there's a reason instead of just, like, a compelling force. Batsy. Listen. This is the main narrative thread, you know. We do not exist outside of it. Not beyond each other. I was the first and I will be the last. For you. But for me. You were always the only." The last part was almost gasped.

He was whispering now. Joker never whispered.

"I was only pushing you further, Bruce. Further along. We try as hard as we can to spin our wheels forever. Spin in circles, smile spirals. Stay where we are and how things are, always. Because the end is more terrible than you can possibly imagine."

Suddenly he smiled. On the man he once was, maybe, that beautiful golden boy, it might have been rakish. Charming. On him now it was chilling. Repulsive. "But why worry about that now, eh Bruce? Batsy, Batman, Bats," he said, and that old familiar sneering, whining, drawling was back. "Like I said."

"I think we'll be doing this forever more. If not always."

For all Joker's empty words, for all the cold and the chill of the light, and the crunch of glass still, this was new territory for Bruce. Because even if Joker wasn't right, he believed what he was saying. Even if Joker was wrong, it was Bruce he was trying to speak to, not Batman. Or rather, not just Batman.

He was trying to talk to him. To drag Bruce down with him. Or pull him out of danger. Bruce wasn't sure. To be fair, Joker wasn't certain either.

Suffice to say that neither man had healthy ways of relating.

"You can't believe that," Batman said.

"You can't pretend you don't," the Joker retorted.

There was a pause, a hesitation. The drizzle continued undeterred, and only Gotham was looking on, light sterile as any sociopath.

Because remember. This wasn't intimacy. This is only blurring boundaries. Broken-glass identities. Sharing scars.

It was Bruce who put his hand on the other man's face, to keep their eyes meeting. Too see how much was calculated and how much was genuine, on both their parts. It was the Joker who gave the little sneer smile and grabbed Bruce's wrist--to yank it away, Bruce thought, to try and twist it, but instead just held it there. For a beat too long.

It was impossible to tell which man jerked closer first.

But whoever did, it was the other man who closed the embrace, who planted a long hard sexless kiss on the other man's mouth.

It was held for several seconds, both man's hands gripping hard into the skin of the other, indicating more passion than the simple kiss.

Remember. This was not intimacy.

Not _precisely_.

But it would keep Bruce Wayne up at night more than anything that ever troubled Batman. Maybe Joker knew this. But then again, maybe it would bother him even more.

Joker pulled back first, and he smiled, his scars twisting. "Oh Batsy. You know why I keep coming back to you?"

Bruce was too shocked to come up with an appropriate answer.

"Here's why," Joker said, patting his shoulder companionably. "And here's why ya let me. Because I let you believe there is something you can hurt. And you let me believe there is something that can actually hurt me." He grinned. "Isn't that hilarious?"

"You need to leave," Bruce said.

"I know," Joker said. "Anyway, I'm done here. For now." He fished a long rope from somewhere in his jacket and handed one end to Bruce. "Hold this," he said, "I'm just gonna let myself out." He nodded his head toward the empty window. "And here you just thought I was being dramatic."

Batman said nothing, just wrapped the rope around his arm several times, pointedly, to show it was braced.

Joker ran his hand though his hair, smoothing it back as much as he could. "Got it? Good. See you later, darling."

He climbed out, climbed down. Bruce watched him disappear into the night, into nothing. He remained silent, staying at the broken window for some time.

Sometimes there is nothing left to do. Sometimes there is nothing left to say. Sometimes that is all there is, always, is nothing.

No rainbow. No cellar door.

But.

Oh playmate

I cannot play with you

My dolly's got the flu

Boo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo

Ain't got no rainbow

Ain't got no cellar door

But we'll be jolly friends

Forevermore

********************

A/N

Haha, remember me? No seriously I exist. I missed you, I missed this, etcetera.

Sorry about the gap. I've been in and out of the hospital, which like sounds really exciting and dramatic and angsty but like anyone with illnesses knows, really it's just interminable boredom and expense times a million. Oh well. What can you do. Everything's going better now.

This story was extremely enjoyable to write. I hope so much you enjoyed it too. These characters are just distractingly dear to me. This last chapter seems different to me in tone somehow, which I can only attribute to a background of TV on the Radio instead of Devendra. (Please do not mock my music. It's SXSW this week and I am completely swept up in the hipster nonsense.)

Oh. Also. Verses are some kid's song, for those out of the country readers. Pretty sure it's American, but I could be completely wrong provided I am not even like remotely sure what the title is.

ANYWAYS.

I hope you enjoyed it.

Love, Dollfayce.

A/N the second.

Obviously I was really sleepy when I posted this because it was RIFE with typos and incorrect usage. RIFE I SAY. So that's all been fixed now.

(It has, right? Gah. Even now I am seized with insecurity)

Enjoy!


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